


Āglo

by avani



Category: Padmaavat (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Backstory, F/F, Fix-It, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:54:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28060488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avani/pseuds/avani
Summary: "Spectacle, my dear," Nagmati's father tells her when she is young, "spectacle is the most useful thing in the world. Show people what they want to see, and they’ll surrender anything in return."She doesn't listen, though, until it is far too late.
Relationships: Background Padmavati/Mehrunissa
Comments: 5
Kudos: 11
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	Āglo

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AllegoriesInMediasRes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllegoriesInMediasRes/gifts).



Nagmati spends her first night of life nestled on a bed of serpents: fitting punishment for being born under an inauspicious star. The palace, and the peasants below, buzz with the story: how the King and midwife, finding his wife bleeding out and his new daughter bawling aloud, had consulted the court astrologers at once; how they had studied their books, and proscribed the infant be abandoned; how the King, obedient to their command, had cast off his now-motherless child into the cellars, where she would have surely died had not the Great God’s creatures marked her as one of their own.

A fine tale, fitting for a princess blessed by the gods and so beyond reproach: a pity, truly, that not a word of it is true.

Barring her mother’s tragic death, of course, and the ill fate to which Nagmati has been born; there is no escaping _that_ , no matter how she tries. But her father is a clever man, and cunning, and knows the crafting of a miracle conceals any number of sins. With a story like that, his throne will be safe, and so too his daughter, and all for the cost of a few copper coins to pay the snake-charmer for the use of his trained pets. What is that to the alliance his now-famous daughter stands to make with her marriage? Bundi might sue for her hand, or even Karauli--each promising to pay more exorbitant bride-gifts than the last. 

(He is clever, and cunning, but not kind. Nagmati supposes she takes after him in that respect.)

“Spectacle, my dear,” her father rumbles on those sunny afternoons when she sits by his side; “spectacle is the most useful thing in the world. Show people what they want to see, and they’ll surrender anything in return: their wealth, their wisdom, their will.”

“Mmph,” Nagmati replies, paying rather more attention to her embroidery. Perhaps inappropriately for a princess marked by magic, she has ever been ruthlessly practical, and making up a great deal of falsehood just to get one's way seems rather more trouble than it’s worth. Far better to present herself simply as she is:good, bad, or in-between. Not even the gods can expect more from her, and if they are content, why shouldn’t she be?

“You’ll change your mind,” Father says indulgently, patting her hand, “once you’re married.”

She very much thinks she will not.

*

In the end, it is Mewar itself that is drawn by the legend of the snake-blessed princess, and Chittor’s gates that open for Nagmati’s wedding procession. Father is beside himself with glee, and Nagmati with relief: Mewar is not only wealthy, but strong. She need fear neither famine nor enemy force for the rest of her days.

Her new husband is blandly courteous, if rather younger than she had expected; Nagmati has the uncomfortable certainty that whenever she looks upon him, she will only see that lanky teenage boy who would plainly rather be off hunting with his brother than dancing attendance on a stranger. If her heart is not moved to love, however, neither is it inclined to hate. She trusts she can make do with so much. 

The _ghoomar_ expected of all new brides of Chittor presents rather more of a problem: not the dance itself, of course; the gods keep Nagmati from the day she isn’t able to execute a few simple twirls here, and a clap or two there. Instead:

“Meant to dance with _diyas_?” Nagmati yelps. “That’s nearly a quarter-year’s worth of lamp oil, wasted!”

Her mother-in-law frowns, thinning her lips even more. “It should be,” she says, “quite the gesture. To show your willingness to risk yourself for Chittor’s welfare.”

Spectacle, damnable spectacle, following her even here! Nagmati raises her chin, daring the old harridan to defy her. “If Chittor doubts my devotion,” she says, quietly and clearly, “I can find better ways of showing it than costing them their hard-earned stores.”

The praise following the _ghoomar_ that night is—polite. Perfunctory. Even pretended, in some cases.

The praise Nagmati earns in the years that follow is very much not.

*

When she is five years wed, her husband’s younger brother and only heir rides off into the woods and does not return. They find his body days later, savaged by beast or barbarian--Nagmati’s husband goes very still and does not say a word, but his mother wails behind her mourning veil. Nagmati is the one to find her, cold and still in her bed; the opened vial of poison is still clasped in her hand. Typical, Nagmati thinks, of her mother-in-law. At the double funeral, all conversation circles around praises of the Dowager’s maternal devotion rather than any memories of the dead child: even now, when it ought not to matter, the former Queen refused to yield. 

(Anger is a fitting counterpoint to the chill of the funeral pyre; and Nagmati would rather gnash her teeth than weep. Always it has been so.)

The court, once they might decently shed their grief, begin to look impatiently towards Nagmati. She wishes she might pretend she doesn’t know why; now, more than ever, Mewar needs the stability of a royal son. But it has been so long, and she has prayed so many times, tried so many promised cures…

She is weary, Nagmati thinks, and does not weep. 

“It is not your fault,” her husband tells her magnanimously, and suddenly, perversely, she wants to lie with any healthy man nearby to prove Ratan Sen correct in the most humiliating way possible. How dare he, she thinks wildly, even as ladies-in-waiting around murmur of their King’s kindness, how _dare_ he use her grief as opportunity for yet another patronizing production--

He lets her go, and leaves her chambers, even as she stiffens with rage. Already she knows what the rumors will say, come morning: of their embittered, unreasonable Queen, and the King who had done well to rid himself of her. She waits for the call to come, the polite request that perhaps she might enjoy a short visit in her father’s house, the palanquin already prepared and waiting.

Instead Ratan Sen does her one better. The loss of her father’s pearls, given away without reason or regret, is a message for her eyes alone: her husband cares little for any of the treasures her father had bestowed upon Mewar, be they living or otherwise. 

When he leaves for Singhal, ostensibly to put right what he has undone--

(He can call it what he likes. Nagmati knows, as _he_ must, of the reputation accorded to the Singhalese maidens’ beauty.

But no, she reminds herself the next minute: the kingdom would never forgive him taking a second wife without the approval of the first. She forgets the indulgence a wellcrafted romance, and the hope of an heir, can bring about in the hardest of hats.)

\--she can almost convince herself she doesn’t care. 

*

And so, Padmavati.

Padmavati is nothing like what Nagmati dreaded to discover in a rival: if anything, she’s worse. Though perhaps she can’t be held to blame; hailing far from the South, Padmavati has no way of knowing how she excels at everything she puts her hand to. Worse, she seems perfectly happy to allow Ratan Sen his ridiculous displays. Nagmati despairs.

At last their combined extravagance has the expected consequences, and the Sultan of Delhi crouches before them, demanding surrender.

Nagmati is not so petty that she can’t grudgingly admire her fellow queen’s ability to spirit their husband out of captivity, senseless though the plan had seemed—but really, she thinks, was it necessary to abduct the Sultana in the process?

Padmavati, when confronted, goes faintly red. “It’s not—how can—there was no _abduction_. We simply spared Mehru her husband’s anger, as any right-thinking soul might do.”

Nagmati raises her eyebrows in polite disbelief. She only need repeat: “‘Mehru?’”

Padmavati sets her jaw, and doesn’t meet Nagmati’s gaze. Well, well. 

Advice, though, ought to come before unholy amusement, and so: “The Sultana of Delhi’s presence in Mewar guarantees Khilji’s will demand our defeat. Worse, it ensures a noble purpose around which he might rally his men: the rescue of their much-beloved queen. While they have breath in their body, even those who don’t care for him will fight for her. Really, didn’t you think at all?”

“No.” The answer is so unexpected even Padmavati seems taken aback by it. “No, I only—I only acted as my heart and honor commanded.”

Internally, Nagmati groans. To the outside world, however, her face betrays nothing but its habitual scowl.

“Then,” she says, “we shall have to do something about that.”

*

Mewar’s noblewomen bid their men farewell and dress in their bridal glory, and then silently file into place to listen to Padmavati announce the call to _jauhar_. Even sunlight and shadow cooperate with Padmavati’s endless need for dramatics: they cast her face and blood-red attire into glorious contrast. Were she not burdened with common sense, even Nagmati would follow her anywhere.

But all too soon it is time to descend the stairs, and approach the flames. At the edge, Nagmati exchanges the traditional sweet with her sister queen, devoid this once of the usual sedatives. When she must die, Nagmati will do it with her eyes open and her wits unclouded, and Padmavati’s eyes look ahead, unfocused and unseeing. Grief, Nagmati supposes, and guilt have such an effect. 

Padmavati leads them all, her banner unfurling behind her like a world of regrets, until even the presence of a figure standing just before the fire stops her where she stands. 

Mehrunissa, daughter of a Khilji and Sultana of Delhi, comes forward, hair unbound, and holds out her hands to Padmavati. She clears her throat, and opens her mouth, and says—

And says nothing at all, only leans forward to press her lips to Padmavati’s. _This_ is what Nagmati receives for putting her faith in foreigners; this for hours spent coaching the Sultana on the arguments to use, religious allusions to make against self-sacrifice; this for awkward moments spent listening to Mehrunissa blubber about her hopeless passion. 

Improvisation, it seems, is called for.

“Disaster!” Nagmati shrieks, but quietly, so that the forces outside will not hear them. “The holy flames are contaminated by the presence of this outsider. Our Queen is undone, and unworthy for sacrifice. What god will accept our souls, what honor can we claim?”

“If so....” One of the younger girls speaks, one so young as to be clearly relieved and ashamed of showing it. “If so, then what is to become of us?”

“The tunnel is still intact,” Nagmati points out, “that the common folk used to escape the fort.” Briskly, not allowing any opportunity for opposition, she continues: “If we leave now, we shall have the near door buried and hidden by the time the gates fall.”

“But if the story should spread?” 

“Why should it?” Padmavati’s voice is clear and steady, but Nagmati sees the way her hand clings to Mehrunissa’s. “The enemy will come searching for us; they will find a pile of ashes and make the obvious assumption.”

More faces in the crowd soften; more shoulders relax. They are close now, so very close. If only—

“And I assure you,” says Mehrunissa, low and sweet, “that the bards would rather sing of your sacrifice than your shame.”

“The time has come, then,” Nagmati says, voice tight with triumph. “Tell me, women of Chittor: shall you walk free?”

Again the unwilling murmur of agreement; again the procession, this time following in her footsteps rather than Padmavati’s.

 _Wealth, wisdom, and will_ , Nagmati thinks to herself, half-marveling at the memory. Even if she had more likely than sacrificed all three of them at once, for no more than a mad impulse, it seems her father’s daughter had discovered a worthy spectacle at last.

* 

Nagmati spends the first night of her new life under the stars. She is cold, the ground beneath her back is pebbled with stones, and just beyond, either Padmavati or Mehru (or both!) is faintly snoring. But the stars shine above, the frogs croon beside, and she is among friends for the first time in her life.

Nagmati smiles.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> * As requested by the prompter, this work ties into the golden girls AU, which can be found [HERE](https://avani008.tumblr.com/tagged/golden-girls-au). Permission from the original author obtained.  
> * Nagmati's backstory admittedly belongs more to my imagination than any clear reference in the movie itself, or even in the poem from which the story originates. However, the epic poem does feature a Nagmati who is so obsessed with her own beauty that she will murder the enchanted parrot that serves as Magic Mirror to her Evil Queen; for my sanity's sake, I've omitted this, just as Bhansali did.  
> *Āglo - (Rajasthani) foremost, first, chief, principal; _but also_ : next, subsequent, forthcoming,  
> * Happy Yuletide, Ally!


End file.
